


camera flashes make it look like a dream

by cascadeoceanwave



Series: cowboy like me - jaylor lavender marriage one shots [3]
Category: Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: Family, Fluff, Gen, i thought i was incapable of writing something without angst but apparently i was wrong, joe is the harry cameron to taylor's evelyn hugo, taylor and joe finally agree to bring their daughter to an award show, their world from her perspective, toe lavender marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 21:14:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28624668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cascadeoceanwave/pseuds/cascadeoceanwave
Summary: For years, award shows were only for grown ups.  You’d watch as stylists and makeup artists poured into your house and made Mom look like a fairy princess, and then you’d sometimes watch from the TV, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of your parents in the crowd.  But this time, everything would be different.  After years of begging, you were finally going to see the glamor and the bright lights for yourself.
Relationships: Joe Alwyn & Taylor Swift
Series: cowboy like me - jaylor lavender marriage one shots [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061351
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	camera flashes make it look like a dream

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the first 1k of this on a Bleorgia high, the second while watching the news in fear, and I finished it off tonight after one of the craziest days of my life. I hope you're all doing okay and I hope this provides some lightness to cut through the chaos <3

For years, award shows were only for grown ups. You’d watch as stylists and makeup artists poured into your house and made Mom look like a fairy princess, and then you’d sometimes watch from the TV, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of your parents in the crowd. When only Mom went, Daddy would order pizza and the two of you would eat in the living room in front of the TV (something you had to promise not to tell Mom about when she got home). When only Daddy went, Mom would wax poetic about how proud she was of him, and you would fall asleep on her bed, watching him on the TV in her bedroom.

But this time, everything would be different. After  _ years  _ of begging, you were finally going to see the glamor and the bright lights for yourself. Mom was nominated for a few VMAs (that stood for Video Music Awards, you’d learned recently), and she’d begrudgingly agreed to let you come. 

When she got the nominations, the three of you danced around in the kitchen in your pajamas, and you asked if you could come, fully expecting the answer to be “no” like always. But she’d stopped and caught Dad’s eye and they spoke in that silent language they had for when they didn’t want you to know what they were saying. “We’ll think about it,” she said. 

A couple of days later, they brought it up at dinner. “Evie, you’re eight years old now--”

“Almost nine,” you were quick to add.

“Almost nine,” Mom agreed. “Daddy and I had a long talk, and we decided that you’re mature enough to come to the VMAs with us.” You whooped in excitement and Mom chuckled, rolling her eyes.

“There are some rules, though,” Daddy said. “Award shows can be really fun, but they can also be stressful. There’s a lot of people running around trying to get to different places very fast. There’s a lot of cameras. So, if you’re going to come, you have to be on your best behavior.”

“Okay,” you said, sitting up straight and crossing your arms, trying to look as serious as you could. You were ready.

<><><>

So, here you are, in the New York apartment bathroom changing into your dress. You crumple your t-shirt and leggings from earlier into a pile on the floor, and step over to the mirror to take it in.

You’re wearing a pale purple dress cinched in at the waist with a matching ribbon. The skirt is made of layers of tulle and poofs out wide around you. You feel like a princess. You can’t help but smile as you spin around. After taking a couple more seconds to stare at yourself in the mirror, you call for Mom to come in and help with the zipper.

She’s wearing a white robe and slippers. Her makeup is done except for her lipstick (she’s about to eat dinner) and her hair is half curled. “Look at you!” she gasps as she steps inside, “You look beautiful, baby.” You’re tall enough that she doesn’t have to kneel down to zip you up anymore. The two of you spend a minute making faces at each other in the mirror before she plants a kiss on the top of your head and tells you it’s time to get your hair done.

When you walk out of the bathroom, Dad is there. He’s wearing a simple black tux with a lavender button down underneath to match you and Mom. His eyes grow wide when he sees you in the dress and he picks you up and spins you around. “You look beautiful, my princess,” he says as he puts you down. He tickles you for a minute before you wriggle away and sit down in the hair and makeup chair.

Mom says you had the same curls as her when you were younger, but as you’ve gotten older, your hair has straightened out a bit and become a wavy, frizzy mess. You wish it would make up its mind and go one way or the other, and you often just throw it back in a ponytail or get Mom to french braid it. Today though, Mom’s hair stylist curls it and massages product through it until it shines. She’s kind and gentle and tells you about her own kids who are a little older than you. You wish you could remember her name, but there are so many people around. You often wonder how your parents manage to keep track of everyone.

When she finishes there’s a knock on the door, right on cue. “Come in,” Mom calls, quickly swallowing a bite of egg roll. The door opens and in walks your absolute favorite redhead.

“Tree!” you squeal, leaping out of your chair and running to hug her.

“Hi, sweet pea!” she says in her light accent. “How are you? I bet you’re excited.”

“Duh!” you smile.

“This dress is so darn cute,” she says, looking over at Mom and Dad. “How are y’all holding up?”

“Good,” Dad says at the same time Mom says, “Nervous.”

“You’re gonna do just fine, honey,” Tree says, walking over to hug them both. “Hey, Evie?”

“Yeah?”

“I have a present for you.” She pats the beg next to you and you run over to sit between her and your mom. Your skirt is so big that it spills over onto both of their laps. 

“Tree, you shouldn’t have,” Mom says, exasperatedly as she pulls a small box out of her purse.

Tree waves her protest away easily. “I wanted to. It’s nothing, really.” You open the box to find a silver bracelet. There’s a small charm on it shaped like a dragonfly with a sparkly purple stone in the center.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, “Thank you!” You give her another hug and she helps fasten the bracelet around your wrist. You’ve known Tree since you were one week old and she feels like family to you. Her daughter sometimes babysits you when you’re in LA.

You’ve already eaten dinner because Mom was too scared you’d spill on your dress, but you sit with her and Dad while they eat. It’s a moment of calm even with the chaos going on around you. You try to read your book, but keep having to go back through entire passages when you realize you’ve been looking at the words without taking them in. Your mind is racing with excitement. Joseph comes in with Mom’s dress in a bag, and things start revving up again.

“Is she doing makeup?” Mom’s makeup artist asks once she finishes carefully putting on her lipstick. You can’t quite remember her name either--you think it begins with an L?

“Evie, do you want a little makeup?” Mom asks. You nod, and she turns back to her stylist. “No foundation or concealer or anything like that,” she says, “Keep it simple.”

You decide you like getting your makeup done. The brushes are soft and tickle a little. You try to sit still and not laugh. When she’s done she hands you a mirror. She’s done some sparkly eyeshadow and pink lip gloss. You thank her and stare at yourself in the mirror until Mom takes it away. You think you look pretty, and maybe a little older.

Finally, after what feels like forever, you’re ready to go. You leave the apartment from the garage because there are paps outside and Mom and Dad don’t like them getting pictures of you. It’s only happened a few times, but it’s a little scary and you’re glad to avoid it.

You sit sandwiched in between your parents in the car and Mom plays Kendrick Lamar to hype herself up on the way to the venue. You can tell she’s nervous because she forgets to tell you not to curse every time he does. Finally, you pull up to the red carpet. There’s a lot of shouting and camera flashes, and you can understand why Mom gets scared of this sometimes. 

You’re ushered out of the car quickly, and you go around the back of the carpet with Daddy and Tree to wait for Mom as she walks it. Daddy wraps an arm around you and you lean against him. Your eyes keep darting around, trying to take it all in. You can’t stop smiling. There’s a lot going on, but it’s so  _ exciting _ .

When it’s Mom’s turn on the carpet and you see her roll her shoulders back and tilt her chin up just a little. She looks almost magical. Her lilac dress is iridescent and it sparkles and shines rainbows as the camera flashes reflect off of it. Her hair tumbles down her shoulders in soft waves and she walks effortlessly in high heels. She doesn’t stumble, not even a little. For a moment, you sort of forget she’s your mom. She seems like an untouchable goddess, and you have to remind yourself that she’s the one who cleaned the cut on your shin when you fell off your penny board yesterday and who won’t let you get up from the lunch table until you eat your broccoli. She declines requests for interviews, walks over to the two of you, and kisses you both on the cheek. 

“You did great!” Dad says, beaming, pulling her into a hug and rubbing her arm. You feel a fluttering in your tummy and can’t help but smile because you can tell they love each other so much. You think it’s funny that most grown ups don’t understand love like they do.

“Let’s go sit down,” Tree says, taking your hand and leading you inside. 

“Woah,” you say as you look around at all the set pieces on the stage. The lights are dim and they look eerie and plastic. Security guards are positioned behind and in front of you as you walk, and you hear a couple gasps and whispers as audience members spot you. You drop Tree’s hand and grab onto Mom’s.

“You okay?” she asks, looking down at you.

“Mhmm. It’s so...big. And there’s so many people,” you say. 

“Sure is. Are you sure you still want to stay? Remember what we talked about--if you want--”

“If I want to leave, tell Mommy and Daddy and Seth will take me home, I know, I know. I’m  _ fine _ . I just said it was big,” you let a bit of a whine slip into your voice and you roll your eyes. She worries too much.

“Evelyn Finlay,” Mom’s voice turns hard, and you regret it instantly. “Drop the sass.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, dropping your gaze to the floor.

“Apology accepted,” Mom says. Her voice is soft again. She squeezes your hand three times and you squeeze back.  _ I love you _ .

You get to your seats only a couple minutes before the show starts, so there isn’t a lot of time for mingling. Mom gets Tree to take pictures of the three of you. “Look at us, we look so cute,” she says, tilting her phone screen so you can see the picture. “We should get this framed for the living room,” she says to Dad. You agree. The three of you look cute in your matching purple. You lost both your front teeth a couple weeks ago, and the gap somehow makes your smile look even bigger. You think it kind of makes you look tough.

The lights start to dim, so you sit down. Grace Vanderwaal is opening up the show, and you love her. You’ve been to a few concerts in your life but you’ve never seen her. She’s the one you’re most excited for tonight. (Besides Mom, of course.)

You swing your feet back and forth in excitement, your olive green high tops brushing the floor. Suddenly, the lights go pitch black and you can feel the bass hum in your chest. “You excited?” Daddy asks, smiling at you.

“Yeah!” you say, still kicking your feet.

A spotlight turns on and Grace appears onstage. The room erupts into cheers and she starts to sing. Mom stands up and you follow suit. You sing and dance and cheer, completely mesmerized by the dazzling lights, the emotion in her voice, and the choreography done by her backup dancers. It’s over all too fast, and you collapse back in your seat. You know that the boring parts are coming up, and you wish there wasn’t so much time between performances.

“Get ready to wave,” Daddy says and you notice a man with a huge camera making his way down to you. You smile and wave as he settles on you for a couple seconds before moving down the rest of the row.

The first half of the show goes well. During commercial breaks, Mom lets you walk around and introduces you to some of her friends. You get to meet Grace and Mom takes a picture of you two together, and then Grace asks  _ her  _ mom to take a picture of the three of you. You also meet Halsey, or Ashley, as Mom calls her, and Kendrick, which is pretty crazy, considering you were listening to his music in the car. 

You tell him this and he smiles incredulously. You make your way back to your seats with Dad and leave Mom and Kendrick to talk for a bit. You know they wrote a song together recently for the album Mom’s working on, but that’s a secret you’re not allowed to tell anyone.

You see some other good performances and dance a lot before you have to go backstage. Mom is performing, so she has to change. You sit on the couch in the dressing room with Daddy while Mom’s stylist helps her into her bodysuit. 

“Are you having fun so far?” Dad asks and you nod. “Who was your favorite--no wait, I bet I can guess.” He feigns deep thought, stroking an imaginary beard. “Hm...was it...Grace?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes.” 

“Do you want anything to drink, Ev?” Mom asks. 

“Can I have a coke, please?”

Mom sighs. “I suppose so.” She turns to Dad. “I’m doing a shot. You want one too?”

He hesitates for a second before responding, “Sure, why not?” A few minutes later, an assistant comes back with your drinks. You all toast to Mom’s performance and you laugh when Dad pulls a face after he downs the alcohol. You once accidentally tried a sip of beer at a barbeque at Uncle Austin’s and it was disgusting. Mom says alcohol is an acquired taste, but you’re doubtful you’ll ever like it.

Soon, someone knocks on the door and tells Mom she’s on in 5. Dad gives her a hug for good luck and then she picks you up. You let your eyes close as she rests her chin on your head and you lie against her chest. You can feel her heart pounding in your ear. “You’re gonna kill it, Momma,” you say. “Don’t forget to look at me in the audience.”

“I won’t, baby. I love you. I’ll see you soon.” She puts you down and you and Daddy are escorted back to your seats. 

You’ve seen Mom perform before, but mostly on tour. She says tour is fun because it’s just for fans, but award shows are scarier. You hope she’s not too nervous getting ready alone.

You reach your seats just as the commercial break ends, and you notice that your hands are getting sweaty. You’re nervous for Mom. You tell Dad this and he chuckles, pulling you close. “There’s nothing to be nervous about, love. Your mother’s been doing this for a long time. She’s going to be fine.”

Mom is more than fine. Mom is electric. She starts the song at the piano, so you can’t see her face. After the first chorus, she stands and takes the mic in her hand as she struts across the stage. You sing along and wave to her, and see Daddy filming it on his phone out of the corner of your eye. She comes right in front of you for the drum and trumpet fills before the bridge, and holds your eye contact through the end of the song. 

It’s moments like these that force you to admit, however begrudgingly, that your mom is kind of cool. She mouths an “I love you” in your direction and makes her way down the steps towards you. A camera follows her, which is a little annoying because she just did a performance for the whole world and you don’t feel like sharing her any more tonight. You know it’s probably just because you’re feeling sleepy (you’re up past your bedtime, afterall), so you push away the feeling.

“Good job, Mom!” you say as she pulls you into a tight hug. She’s a little sweaty and out of breath, but she’s smiling as she half-lets you go to hug Dad.

You can’t go backstage because her award is up next, so you just sit on her lap while you wait for the announcer lady to get through her boring speech. Finally, she reads out the nominees, and short clips of their music videos play on the screens surrounding the venue. You point excitedly when Mom’s comes up. She flew out to LA for three days to film that video and you missed her, but it turned out really good. She was the director too, which you think is very cool.

“And the winner is…” She takes a long pause as she fumbles to open the envelope, and you realize you’re holding your breath. Mom is squeezing your hand in one hand and Dad’s in the other. “Taylor Swift, ‘Blood Orange.’”

The next few seconds are a blur. You don’t quite remember what happens, but you remember Mom lifting you up and spinning you around. You think she kisses you on the cheek, but maybe you kiss  _ her _ on the cheek. Then she straightens up and hugs Daddy. They kiss too, which makes you laugh because they almost  _ never _ kiss and you know they think it’s funny, too. The cheering of the crowd sounds like it’s underwater, and, for a second, it feels like the world is very very small--just the three of you, happy.

Mom goes up to make an acceptance speech, which you sort of tune out. You’re hugging Daddy’s waist, your cheek pressed against his hip. You let your eyes unfocus and the world goes bright and shiny. You’re so glad you got to come. This is much more fun in person.

You stay backstage for a little while, taking pictures with Mom’s award and meeting a couple of her friends. Dad carries you to the car and covers you in his suit jacket because it’s raining. Once you’re in the car, Mom lets you rest your head in her lap and strokes your hair gently.

The conversation fades in and out as you teeter somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. At one point, you hear Mom’s voice ask quietly, “Do you think we did the right thing, bringing her?”

“I think so,” Dad whispers back. “She had a blast.”

“She’s so tired, poor kid,” Mom chuckles. “It’s so weird. I stressed so much about keeping her life private that I never thought about what we would do if she didn’t want that.”

“She certainly is our daughter,” Dad says. “We’re not going to, like…”

“Make this a habit,” Mom finishes.

“Exactly. But it’s a nice thing to have done once, and I’m glad we gave her the choice.”

“God, let’s hope she doesn’t wake up tomorrow and start asking us to ship her out to auditions,” Mom shudders, but you can tell by her voice that she’s smiling. When you get home and she helps you into your PJs, you make sure to hug her extra tight before bed.


End file.
